Hateful Words
by foxontherun
Summary: Post-ep to Lady's Man. Some Eames angst. Some smut. You know, the good stuff. More chapters to come. Rated T for language now, M for sexual content later. *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a shorter little post-ep to take my mind off of an NCIS fic that is so long and confusing in my head that I can't squeeze a sentence out on paper. So here's a slightly angsty, slightly romantic, slightly smutty litle fic that I hope you'll like.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Law and Order juggernaught. Believe me, if I did, I'd be taking serious liberties with some of the actors, and inviting a few dozen sexual harassment suits.

//

I held out as long as I could. The shaking started just after I slapped the cuffs on the creep, and got progressively worse as I sat down at my desk to fill out the paperwork. I could feel it coming—a breakdown of monumental proportions, and I didn't want it happening right in the middle of the fucking squadroom.. All I needed was a display of female hysterics to get the good old boys club going about women on the force. Plus, Bobby was looking at me. I could feel the concern radiating from his side of the desks like a wall of heat. I didn't look up, but, as I felt the blood drain from my face, I excused myself as calmly as I could, and practically bolted to the ladies' room.

Just in time, too. The minute I stepped into a stall, my legs gave way completely and I sat down on the toilet seat hard enough to bruise my backside. And then I felt it. The wall of tears that I had been forcing down, rising in a stinging hot gorge in my throat. I put my hands over my eyes, and felt tears leak out, running down my forearms.

_I'm such a fucking mess._

I was taking short, sharp breaths, trying not to make that mewling, shuddery sound that one makes when they are trying not to sob hysterically out loud. God, I hated that sound.

_Just what the fuck is wrong with me? How can my judgement be so terribly awry? The one man I chose to confide in, when Joe left me, and he turns out to be some gender-confused psychopath? Damnit, Eames, how do you pick the absolute bottom of the barrel with such laser precision?_

The shame of Kevin Mulrooney triumphantly saying that he'd seen me broken. The humiliation of Bobby asking if I'd slept with him, and having to admit that I would have. In a split goddamned second. What a bad judge of character I am. The memory of Joe. His death. The long, bent, skewed months of grief afterwards where I was sure I'd never live on after him. The memory of my small hand stroking Kevin's. The memory of Joe. A thousand memories of Joe. And Bobby. Bobby handing me the cuffs. Bobby shoving the suspect into the table because he'd hurt me. Bobby's sweet face, full of empathy.

_Bobby._

_What a ridiculous situation to be in. 8 years trying to find the right guy to fall in love with again. 8 years of losers and wimps and megalomaniacs. 8 years, and I end up falling in love with my partner._

Partner. When did that word become so hateful to me? Bobby and I were practically two halves of a whole. We rubbed together like oiled steel, circling suspects with dancer's grace, closing in for the kill. We are great partners. But there it was. That wall surrounding us. That thin blue circlet, disallowing them any affectionate contact that wasn't entirely platonic. Hell, even platonic contact was looked on with narrowed eyes. And anyways, when was the last time Bobby had shared even the remotest contact with me? Never. Never even a hug. The most we'd ever touched was a hand on the shoulder, a linked arm when undercover. I cherished those memories.

_What am I thinking about? Bobby doesn't care about me that way. He's showed me love in a thousand different guises. Killed himself to find me when I was kidnapped, sat by my bedside in a reverent vigil when I was discovered. He needs me. But not like that. Never even a hint of lust or a covetous glance. And to be sure, I've watched. And waited. But nothing. And we're partners. Bobby is nothing if not respectful of that tenuous relationship._

And the mystery of Bobby, anyways. Bobby was the dark to Joe's light. All distorted, strange emotions. Misplaced guilt. Self-immolation.

_"All your wounds are self inflicted."_

Had I really said that to him? I can't imagine. I remember the still, quiet of the interrogation room. Saying "Detective," crisply, while my mind heaved with fury and fear. How I had wanted to throw myself at him, pounding on his chest with my fists, shouting _"You fucking idiot, I could have killed you! I could have lost the only other man I've ever loved. Do you know what that would have done to me? With my own gun, Bobby?" _And then pressing my mouth against his, weeping at the fact that he was still alive. Not corrupt. Still Bobby. Holding him tight to reassure myself that he was still there.

And then, later, his miserable, desperate happiness at getting his shield back. How I had hated him at that moment.

_The job is more important to you than I am._

That's what it all boiled down to. They could never be more than partners, because he was in love with the job. Not me. Even in the later months, when his stumbling-Columbo detective routine became more than just a façade. How he had followed me around like a wounded hound-dog, his eyes hungrily hoping for some small sign of affection from me.

_Because he needs me._

But that wasn't enough. Even if, by some grace of God, he loved me back, and had been hiding it like some treasured secret, burying it for the sake of their partnership, they could never be together. Captain Ross, no matter how fair, how surprisingly gentle he had turned out to be, was nothing if not perceptive. To the point of eagle-eyed observation. He'd know. And then their partnership would snap. Implode. And Bobby would hate me, even as he loved me. Because for all that, he loved the job more. And always would.

So I sat on the cold toilet seat and cried into hiccuping sobs, holding my head in my hands. For a thousand reasons, I cried.

And then I heard a soft knock on the door.

_Fuck._

"Alex?"

His voice was soft, concerned, and beautiful.

And all of a sudden, I didn't know what to do or say.

//

A/N: Review review! Am I doing ok on my second fanfic attempt???


	2. What Comes Next?

A/N: This story is coming pretty easily to me. Hallelujah. It's either that my muse has come back, or it's the painkillers I'm on for my arthritis. (Hello, I'm 25. Why do I have arthritis??)

//

"Alex?"

I didn't even realize I was calling her by her first name. Normally. I'm very aware of that. It seems somehow like a tenderness that I can't allow myself to show. Because, God help me, with the unplummed depths of tenderness I feel for Alex Eames, one little show of tenderness could lead to another. I have to keep myself under tight reigns when I'm around my partner, or else I could lose myself in her. So she remains Eames. Except in times like these, where I'm so worried for her that I forget myself. So there it is.

I hear a wet, choked sounding laugh come from the last stall.

"Bobby, this is the _ladies room_. You can't be in here." She says, and I can tell that she's been crying. God how I hate that. I hate that look in her eyes when she's fighting down tears. I've seen it too often. Been the cause of it too often.

_God, I'm sorry Alex. I'm sorry for everything._

She's my partner. She's my whole fucking world. If I didn't have her, I would have lost it long ago. I wonder briefly if she knows how much she means to me. She must. You can't have feelings this strong about someone and have them go unnoticed, no matter how hard you try to hide them. How many times have I seen her, bent over her desk musing about some hidden artifact of justice, and just wanted to lean over and envelop her body in mine. To kiss the delicate white skin of her neck and whisper to her that I would be her slave forever, if she would only ask. Then she would turn and I would freeze in the midst of those feelings. Make a show of being overly casual. While inside I was aching from untouched love.

"I wanted to make sure you were ok," I stutter, making my way closer to the muffled, sad sounds that were coming from her stall. "Are you ok?" I ask.

_Stupid question. Stupid. Stupid. Some fucking genuis you are, Goren. What a marvelous deep understanding of human psychology you have._

Another wet laugh.

"Oh, I'm just fine," she spits out between stifled gasps. She has been crying. Hard. "I'm just revising my list of criteria for men I date. I think it's time to cross out 'psycopath' and 'cross-dresser' from my list. Oh, and 'murderer.'"

_Oh, Alex. Stop being so brave._

"I'm sorry," I say, mentally banging my head against the wall. "Stupid question." A pause, as I re-center myself. "Hey," I say. "Open the door, will you?"

"You know," she says, sounding a little more under control, "Wheeler might run in here and throw up on you. You really want to run that risk?"

"I'll take my chances," I say, sliding down to sit on the floor across from where she sits. Only a flimsy door between us, but it might as well be 20 feet of concrete. I can't touch her. I long to touch her. To throw the door open and press her face to mine and kiss away the tears and the pain.

_You don't need any list, Alex. I'm right here._

But am I? There's always the job. That rigid barrier I can't cross. I can't face the idea of Alex leaving me. And what are her true feelings? Who the hell knows. I know she's probably still angry at me, maybe even pities me a little. She's my best friend, knows more about me than anyone on earth, except maybe Lewis, but…she's my partner. Even if she did love me, I wouldn't do anything to upset that. We're the lovely evenness of a yin and yang. I'm night, she's day. It feels like the slightest gesture would spill that finely balanced cup, and it would stain both of us. She's worked so hard to get where she is, even if she ended up stuck with me, hit the dropped ceiling of her career. So that's what we remain. Partners. I respect that word as much as I can even as I hate it, long to crush it under the weight of my love.

"Please," I say, as quietly and evenly as I can. "Open the door. I want to—" And then I stop, because I don't know what comes next.

"You want to what?" Eames asks, and the question is there, hanging in the air between us, sighing under that locked door.

"I want to help," I say, even though that doesn't even begin to describe what I want. I want to heal her. To make her whole. To erase the past few years and go back to a simpler time. I want to have her. I want her to love me and never leave.

There's a click, and the door hitches free. Not quite open, but not locked. I push it a little, leaning forward, and reveal her small, bent body. She has her head in her hands, and her hair is damp with sweat and tears. I've never seen her this vulnerable before. Not even after her kidnapping. She seems completely undone. It leaves me breathless.

She looks up at me, and her red-rimmed eyes have never looked so beautiful, or so ashamed.

"I'm making a fool out of myself," she complains, and swipes tiredly at her tears with one hand.

I can't speak for a moment as a wave of longing washes over me, so strong it almost reels me forward. And in that moment, I lose all my self control.

I lean forward and gently clasp her face in my palms, letting my thumbs stroke away her remaining tears. Her face is so close to mine.

She gasps.

"Bobby… " she says, her breath soft and disjointed, as if a thousand emotions are running through her system.

And I snap out of my reverie. So close to Eames that our faces are inches apart, sitting on the floor of the ladies' room in One PP, where we work, where anyone could come in at any moment, where our emotions are supposed to retreat to separate corners of our lives. And I freeze, fighting with myself, my desperate urge to lean just a little closer and press my lips against hers.

_Oh Christ, Goren. What comes after this?_

//

A/N: Ha ha. Cliffhanger. Anyways, ask and ye shall receive. A chapter a day. Do you think I can do it? Please review!


	3. Hot Damn

_A/N: I find Bobby harder to write than Eames. I dunno, maybe it's because I relate more to snarky women with bad taste in men than to wounded geniuses? Anyways, this story isn't going to be surprising or full of twists and turns, just a quiet little meditation on love unleashed. With lots of sex. And as always, review! The more reviews, the more orgasms! I promise!_

//

_Holy Christ on a crutch._

That's what my Dad used to say when something truly revalatory or startling happened to him, like, say, the Yankees losing to the Sox, or one of my brothers (or me) beating him at touch football.

Well, if anything in my life has been startling or revelatory until now, it's Bobby Goren leaning in and reverently cupping my face in his hands like an old lover. It's so startling, in fact, that all I can manage, even in my mind, is his name. There are simply no thoughts or words big enough to fill the sudden cavity that used to house my brain.

It turns out, however, that this is simply the calm before the storm of thoughts begin.

_Bobby Goren is going to kiss me._

_**Is**__ Bobby Goren going to kiss me?_

_Why the hell did he choose this time and place to kiss me for the first time?_

A solid bubble of horribly inappropriate laughter wells in my throat. The ridiculousness of it all. Sitting in a small, cramped toilet stall about to share a first kiss with the man I've loved for as long as I can remember. At work, no less. Where detectives Beecher or Stone or whoever could walk in at any moment. I quash the laughter down. Suddenly I don't feel like laughing anymore. I feel…

_Oh God, what is he doing?_

_He's just sitting there like a deer in the headlights._

_So maybe he's not going to kiss me, after all?_

_But he wants to. I can tell._

_He's so close._

_Fuck it.__** I'm**__ going to kiss __**him**__. _

The idea, the mere thought, that Bobby loves me, or at least, thinks about me romantically, gives me the emotional strength—that final push—to do what I've been wanting to do for 5 goddamn years. Fuck the brass. Screw the rules. Even if the Chief of Ds _himself_ strolls into the women's room right now and finds us groping each other like horny teenagers, nothing but nothing is going to stop me from kissing Bobby right this minute.

So I do.

The minute my lips press against his he utters a low, gutteral moan that is literally the sexiest sound I've heard in my life. He parts his mouth a little, and I watch as his eyes flicker closed.

_He does love me._

The force of this realization makes my heart pound in my chest. All this time I had thought that my one-sided love affair would last forever. God, Bobby must be some terrific actor to hide this from me.

_Of course he's a terrific actor. He's Robert fucking Goren. Head chameleon of Major Case. Some fucking detective I am. The finest of NYPDs finest. Why didn't I see this sooner?_

His tongue skates delicately over my lips and my cyclical, useless thoughts are interrupted by a long, mental squeal of joy. The kiss deepens as our mouths explore each other, tongues darting, sliding, intermingling in warmth and slickness.

I feel his hands skim down my waist, and the feel of them against the bare skin of my back, where my shirt has come free from my waistband, is electric. A bolt of energy shoots down my center, and my insides grow hot and wet. My body, which was so slack and listless before, seems charged, poised.

_Robert Goren, I want you bad._

There have been many times when I suspected that Bobby was a mind-reader. Sometimes annoyingly so. But now, it is as if he can somehow sense the change in my body. His hands slide down to cup my ass, and he lifts me up, slowly. I can feel his muscles contract as he spins me around and presses me up against the wall. Presses me hard. And presses hard against me. I moan. His eyes open, slightly, heavy lidded.

"Wow" He says, softly, just for me to hear. And then moves a little, pressing his tongue to a soft place on the base of my neck.

_Wow is right._

And then I stop, my heart racing, all of my nerves jolted back to reality.

Voices, from outside the door. Close.

_Caught!_

I can feel Bobby's heart pounding against mine as he hears the same thing. The door swings open with nonchalant ease.

//

_A/N: Boy, am I cruel. You want to know what happens next? REVIEW!_


	4. Since we're being honest

_A/N: I want to thank everyone for their kind reviews! It really makes my day to know that people are reading and enjoying. Also, I think Bobby looks supremely sexy these days. Yeah, he's exactly twice my age, but what the hell. Older is better, at least in my book._

//

I don't know how she did it. I'm still amazed. One moment her tight body was pressed up against mine, wriggling against me and making the most enticing noises, the next, she was at least five feet away from me, speaking as if she were in the middle of a conversation.

"And don't you think you can invade my privacy like this!" She hisses. "I'm not some delicate flower you need to check up on everytime the going gets hard. I've been on the force longer than you have. I'm a big girl, Goren."

It takes me a moment to catch on to her strategy—I'm so flustered I at the whole situation. Our first kiss. The thing that I've been longing for. It seems like the minute it happened, it had to stop. And now this. My head is spinning. I'm not used to feeling this off-kilter. Only one person can do this to me.

_Damn you, Alex. Damn. Damn. Damn._

"Well pardon me for giving a shit," I say, forcing myself to act irritated, and probably looking like a maniac in the process of furrowing my brow and trying to surpress years of pent-up arousal. "It's been a tough case. I just wanted to make sure—" I take a look out of the corner of my eye, and see detective Blackwell standing in the doorway, staring at me with rounded, owl eyes. I remember asking her out to dinner, years ago. And I remember being bored out of my mind as she spent the entire time talking about department gossip, taking bird-like sips out of her gin and tonic, and looking at me with wide, youthful eyes as I tried not to nose-dive into my steak.

_Great. This is going to be around the department in half an hour. Crazy Goren and his partner are fighting again._

I let my voice trail off. "Uh, sorry," I say, agitatedly, rubbing the back of my neck (well, at least that part isn't acting. I'm genuinely about as agitated as I can possibly get.)

Blackwell just stares at me like I'm completely off her radar, and gives a slight nod. I back out of the bathroom fast, and lean against the wall just outside, trying to still my aching nerves. A few gold shields pass by me, giving me iffy looks. I probably look like I've been roughed up—all rumpled clothes and fast breathing.

A few minutes later, a very composed and serene looking Alex Eames exits the ladies' room and walks right past me like I've melted into the wall.

_What. The. Fuck._

No. This is not happening this way. I watch as she makes her way through the crowded desks and disappears into a closed conference room. Then I follow her.

"Thank God," she says once I get inside, a reproach already dying on my lips. "We have to talk."

"You astound me," is the first thing I can come up with. She looks at me with a genuine smile on her face. A smile which grows larger until she's giggling a little. Which makes me start to smile. And then we're both laughing. Which, really, is the only logical response to the situation, since we can't continue feeling each other up. At least not here. So we laugh at the complete ridiculousness of it all.

She's laughing in loud, delighted chuckles, which I find utterly endearing. "Which," she says between breaths, "part" she pants, "are you referring to?"

"The whole thing," I say, my laughter winding down. "But especially that last part. You can really be sly when you want to."

She smiles at me again, her laughter gone with mine. "But you knew that already," she says. "We've done plenty of undercover work before. Don't tell me you've underestimated me this entire time."

"No," I say. "Well, maybe. You were completely in control in there. I was totally at sea. I would have just stood there and let her.." my voice trails off. Now I don't feel like laughing at all. It's just to big to take on. Everything is at stake. My work, my life. Eames. I don't know how to reconcile all the emotions that are bombarding me right now. So I don't.

I walk right up to her and kiss her again. A gentle kiss, this time. No tongue, no groping. Just her lips pressed to mine, tenderly. It lasts all of two seconds before she gently pushes me away. And then I feel like an idiot.

_Bobby Goren. Complete Jackass._

"I feel like an idiot," I mumble, looking down at my shoes.

"Oh God, Bobby, don't," Alex says, forcing me too look at her. Her eyes are all kindness and there is no reproach there. "Look," she says, "I wanted this to happen just as much as you did! It's just that…we're at work. In a conference room. This isn't the best place.."

"What would have happened if Blackwell hadn't interrupted us?" I ask, a litle too loudly, cutting her off. She looks at me, and I can see the same questions running through her mind that are running through mine. This is a mess.

"I don't know," she admits, biting her bottom lip, which, to be honest, turns me on a little.

_Everything about Eames turns me on a little. Since we're being honest._

"When can we talk?" I ask. "Really talk?" Eames raises an eyebrow.

"You want to really talk?" She asks, sounding skeptical.

"Of..of course," I say, damned stutter re-appearing. How can she think I don't want to talk about this?

_Maybe it's all the times you've kept things from her, moron._

"My place?" She suggests. "After work?"

Thank god. Somehow the discussion would seem entirely out of place in my sad, lonely bachelor's pad.

"I'll make dinner," I say, trying for all the world not to sound nervous.

"You cook?" She asks, incredulously.

"Hey," I say, defensively, "I could cook circles around you." Now we're just bantering. Both of us relieved not to have to be addressing the big issue at hand.

"Probably," she shrugs, "since all I can cook are ramen noodles."

I'm about to make some snappy comment about ramen noodles making a great casserole, when Ross sticks his head in the door.

Thank God we're not still kissing.

"Can I see both of you in my office?" He asks curtly, sounding miffed.

_Lovely. What else does this day have in store for me?_

_//_

_A/N: Reviews! I have pneumonia, and the ONLY thing that will make me better is reviews. And antibiotics. But mostly…REVIEWS! _


	5. Cour a la Creme, and other enticements

_A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, but MAN have I been sick. I'll do better from now on!_

//

Once inside his office, Ross sighs and slides a hand through his hair. I almost feel sorry for him. I figure it must be a lot of pressure being captain, especially captain of New York's most powerful squad, and even more especially being captain of Bobby Goren, authority-flaunter extraordinairre. But he has been trying to extend the olive branch for months now, and lately there's been a tenuous peace between them. Very tenuous.

"Detectives…" Ross sighs again. He seems to be at the end of his rope. "Do I have to remind you that the ladies' bathroom is not an apropriate place for an argument?"

_Blackwell, you're a dead woman._

"Captain," Bobby starts, but he's cut off by Ross' exasperated voice.

"You two need to make amends somehow." Ross says. "This continual war between you, silent or not, can not go on. If you can't stop fighting, I'll have to suspend both of you until you work it out."

_No. No no no no._

"Captain," I say, trying to keep my voice level and calm. "It's been a difficult couple of days. I was just venting. Bob—Detective Goren and I have alredy resolved the problem. We're fine."

Bobby is nodding his head faintly and staring fixedly at the floor. I can see a flush rise up his neck. I can't decide whether he's trying to hold himself back from slugging Ross, or trying not to laugh out loud. Probably the former.

_Please, Ross. Don't pry. Just buy my explanation and let us go before something bad happens._

Ross is looking at both of us with narrowed eyes. I can feel a blush flaming my cheeks, to match Bobby's.

_Ross. Please. _

"Ok," Ross says, finally. "But I'm giving you both a day off, starting now. Take some time, rest, recouperate, watch a movie, whatever. When you get back here I want both of you in top form"

_A day off? Hallelujah._

"Captain—" Bobby is starting to protest, the big jerk. I start towards the door, pulling him with me.

"Goren, let's go get some dinner," I say, putting on my hostage negotiator voice. Hopefully he gets the hint.

_Let's go. Let's get the fuck outta here. _

He looks at me appraisingly as we leave Ross' office. Once at our desks, he scuffs his toe on the floor and, with his neck at an angle, glances at me.

"Don't pull your interrogation tactics on me, Bobby," I say, with just enough sugar in my voice for him to know that I'm not really angry. He chuckles, his little-boy grin flashing at me for a moment, leaving my knees a little shaky.

"Do you want me to cook, or not?" He says in a low, private voice.

"Hell yes I do," I say, forcing my nervousness down. "Do I get to pick what we're eating?"

"You can pick a cuisine," Bobby says, grin widening. "But I choose the dish. I can't cook middle-eastern or indian, though, so be gentle."

"Is there a Goren-specific cuisine?" I ask, teasingly.

"Yeah," he says. "Coffee and pastrami. But I'm pretty sure I can do better for you."

"How about French?" I ask, feeling decadent. Romance and French food seem to pair up nicely.

"Good choice," Bobby says, rocking back on his heels a little. "Just call me Julia Child."

We exit the squad room, me still giggling at the thought of Bobby in an apron.

//

Bobby rummages around my kitchen like he's been there for years. He seems to know where everything is, including my food processor, which I don't even remember buying. Watching him cook is like a magic trick. He hunches his big body down a little, since my kitchen is built for normal-sized people. Soon, there is an intoxicating scent wafting around my apartment, making me a little heady.

_Gotta love a man who can cook._

"You seem to know what you're doing." I note, from my post leaning against the doorframe with a glass of wine in hand. He barely looks up from his sauce reduction.

"Yeah," he mutters absent-mindedly. "I learned to cook for myself when I was young." He shifts uncomfortable, switching the spatula into his right hand. I mentally kick myself for bringing up what is clearly a sore subject. His mom. Probably never cooked for him after she was diagnosed. His dad was away, and Frank surely didn't lift a finger to help. My heart aches a little for that little boy, fending for himself as best he could. I bet he hasn't changed much.

"You still haven't told me what we're having," I say lightly, trying to keep a tremor out of my voice.

He moves to get something out of the fridge, and suddenly we're in close contact. It's not a big kitchen, and Bobby seems to fill the whole thing. His presence is larger than life, in all things. He seems to realize our proximity after a few moments, and slowly turns around so that we're standing inches apart.

"Poulet Sauté aux Herbes de Provence," he murmers, as he steps in a little closer, his voice lowering to a husky growl. I start to feel a little warm.

_God he's sexy. It's in everything he does. Every movement, every statement, every quirk, every sinuous inch of his body._

"Salade en vinaigrette," he continues, in that same low, predatory voice. I'm so turned on that my ears are ringing. Slowly he reaches up to push a stray tendril of hair out of my face. His hand lingers on my cheek, leaving trails of fire wherever his fingers touch. They end up lightly running down my neck, to the back of my head, and then his mouth claims mine, tongues intertwining in a slick dance. I reach around to grab his waist and pull his body flush with mine. I can feel his arousal pressing against me.

_Fuck dinner. Just take me to bed and make me scream your name._

After too short a time, he pulls away apologetically, and the absence of his body is palpable. My own body is trembling from extreme sensory overload and the heat in my groin. I lick my lips, and watch as Bobby's eyes darken.

_Yeah. Two can play at that game._

"Sorry…the sauce," he says gesturing vaguely. "Oh. Cour a la Crème for dessert, of course."

"Of course," I echo, feeling giddy and happy.

//

_A/N: Short-ish chapter, but I'll make it up to you next chapter, with some hot "__**M**__" action. I can't torture you any longer. Smut is my middle name. Also, I know I'm making these characters swear like drunken sailors. That's because that's how I talk, so forgive me. Oh, and REVIEW!_


	6. An old story, a new story

_A/N: This story is getting more difficult to write. I feel like it's declining in quality as I go. But I will overcome! I will soldier on! If only for the sake of Goren and Eames, who apparantly only ever get to have sex in fanfiction. BTW this chapter is staunchly rated __**M**__. You have been warned._

//

After our second kiss, my body takes a good amount of time to re-adjust into its normal state. It certainly makes sauce-making more challenging. Plus Eames is still leaning in the doorway, and I can feel the sensation of her eyes on me. I wonder if she's checking me out. Then I wonder if I shouldn't just skip dinner and go directly to dessert—and eat it straight off her body.

_Damn these distractions. My sauce isn't thickening properly._

I put my spoon down and walk over to where Eames is standing, pour her another glass of wine, and pick up her small hand, kissing it gently on the ring finger, the index finger, the palm…her skin is so soft, and she smells lightly of tea-roses and vanilla.

"Do you mind waiting in the living room?" I ask lightly. She gives me a half-disappointed, half-curious look.

"Why?" She asks, "Is my bad energy disturbing your cooking?"

"Yeah," I answer. "That and I can't take my eyes off you long enough to actually _do_ any cooking." She grins at me with her beautiful mouth and waltzes off into the next room, sitting indian style on her couch, flipping the tv on. I notice with some amusement that she's watching Mythbusters.

Back to stirring the sauce, and I let my mind wander. How can this actually be? It seems like life's great balancing scale has swung around in my favor. And it's been so easy. I thought there would have been desperate bouts of angst on either of our parts. But it appears that we are falling into this…relationship…naturally. Without fear or pain. Just happiness. It seems too good to be true. Eames wanting to be with me. Eames loving me. Eames kissing me. All things I never thought would happen, except in my dreams, where I have no control over what I do. But here we are.

"Bobb-eeeee," Eames' voice comes floating out of the living room. "When's dinner going to be ready?" Her voice is half-whine, half coo. I grin a little to myself.

"Be patient," I call back. "I'll make it worth your while. About half an hour."

"Another half hour?" She sounds incredulous. "That dessert better be made of solid gold. I'm so hungry I'm thinking of running down to the deli to get a sandwich to tide me over." I can tell from her voice that she's smiling.

"Only if you want me to come in there and strangle you," I answer. I hear her chuckle.

I go back to cooking, pulling the chilled crème out of the fridge and starting a raspberry sauce on the other burner. Back to letting my mind wander, a single thought comes into my head and I can't shake it.

I'm know I'm going to do something to ruin this.

Trying to force the thought from my head I think about anything from stonehenge to freemasonry to an interesting book I read a few days ago about the relationship between humans and plants. It doesn't exactly work. I still come back to that thought.

The rest of my cooking becomes a morose exercise in self-flagellation.

_Great._

//

"Dinner is served, madame," I say, trying not to let my voice belie the sudden change of my emotions.

"Bobby!" Eames leans forward and take a long lingering sniff of the chicken. "This smells amazing," she moans, and my doubts are overtaken by how sensuous she sounds. Then she adds, "almost good enough to make up for the fact that I got kicked out of my own kitchen."

"Well," I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, "I wanted to do a good job. For you."

Eames smiles and reaches across the table to place her hand over mine. The simple gesture has me fighting back tears. God, I'm a mess. I push the tears back and smile at her.

"Taste it before you get all gushy," I say. "It might be horrible."

"Excuse me," she says, eyebrow hoisted, "gushy?"

_Oops. Not a word you want to use to describe Eames. _

"You know," I say, backpedalling, "before you melt into my arms in ecstasy." Now she laughs, removes her hand from mine and picks up her fork.

"Well," she retorts, "if it isn't good, I can always kick you to the curb."

"I'm hurt," I grin at her, "I thought you just kept me around for my good looks." She swallows her mouthful, and looks up at me in wonder.

"That was before I knew you could cook," she says. "Now I know you're good for at least two things."

We both chuckle at this, and then get back to eating, in a comfortable silence. The food did turn out well, despite everything. Eames even eats the radishes from her salad, even though I know for a fact that she detests them. I bring this up.

"Bobby, I would eat a leather shoe, if it was covered in this dressing," she says with a cute little quirk of her nose.

Then dessert. After capturing the last drop of raspberry sauce with Gran Marnier, Alex settles back against her chair, sipping a glass of Chambord.

"So how did you learn French cooking, Emeril?" She asks. I wince. I hate Emeril.

"Well, I, uh I had this girlfriend," I start, stumbling over my words.

"Of course you did," Alex snarks at me, exasperated. I give her my best wounded look, and she relents a little, looking stern but less so. The wounded look always gets results. And Alex would fillet me if she knew I did it on purpose.

"You _asked_," I point out. She reletnts further.

"So I did," she says. "Go on."

"Well, I-I was bullied a lot in highschool," I begin, starting to wish that I hadn't begun this particular story. "You wouldn't really think it," I say, "given my size and everything. I was over six feet in 8th grade. But apparently it was my height that made all the jocks want to ream me. I was a gangly kid back then. Skinny, bony. I hadn't grown into my height yet. So I couldn't exactly fight back when some 18 year old football player was sitting on top of me." I sigh, wanting the story to be over. Alex gives me an encouraging look. "So I got my revenge…unconventionally." I stop, trying to think how to phrase the next part.

"You stole their girlfriends," Alex says with an amused smile tugging at her lips. I look up at her, surprised. I apparently never fail to underestimate my pretty, petite partner.

"Y-yeah," I say, damning my stammer. "It wasn't too hard. Most of them weren't exactly…the brightest bulb."

"Hey, watch it, buddy," Alex says, "you're talking to the prom queen, here."

"Well," I hesistate. "I wasn't a really good kid. I got in all sorts of trouble. I didn't respect women, or anyone for that matter." I sigh again. "Anyways, this girl was an exchange student from France. She had been seeing the captain of the hockey team. So after he tried to break my arm, I played the wounded, brooding injured artist card, and she fell for it." Alex laughs at this.

"You mean you're not actually wounded, brooding or injured?" She playfully asks me.

"Well," I say, starting to smile myself, "why not put it to good use? We started dating, in secret. One day I met her father, who was in town for a few months. He turned out to be Paul Bocuse." I stop, and offer, "he's a famous french chef. One of the originators of Nouvelle Cuisine. Well, we became friends of a kind. I guess I was looking for a..a father figure. He started to teach me some regional dishes. Not fancy stuff, but good, home-cooked meals." I pause, "the long and short of it is, Adelle broke it off because I was spending more time with her father than with her, and Paul returned to Paris, and I leaned to cook some basic french dishes, which I built upon as I gew older."

Alex sits there and looks at me, a swirl of emotions in her eyes. Minutes stretch by, and we sit in silence. I wonder what I said that was wrong. Then, as if reaching a decision, she grabs my arms and pulls me close. I'm straddling her legs, not wanting to settle my entire weight on her. She trails hot kisses up my neck, until her mouth hungrily presses to mine, tongues darting in and out. I can't supress a groan as she sucks on my tongue, and I trail my fingers down her neck to her blouse, opening one tiny pearl button after another, until I can reach inside and rub my thumb slowly against the hard tip of her breast. She moans at this, pressing into my hand, and I take her nipple between my fingers and slowly roll it, exerting a little pressure now and then. She breaks away from my mouth to gasp.

"God! Bobby!" She says breathlessly, before attacking my mouth again. My other hand slips down and undoes the zip of her pants. I feel her shudder against me as I move my head down, kissing her collar bone lightly, then the spot just between her breasts, then take her nipple in my mouth, suckling and nipping. She stifles a cry, and I can feel my arousal straining against the fabric of my pants.

Still lavishing attention on her full, admirably pert breasts, I allow my other hand to dip below her panties, trailing a small circle just above where I know that tiny bundle of nerves lies. She bucks against me, and I slip a finger inside her.

"Bobby pleaaase," she moans against my neck. She's starting to rock her body, and I slip another finger inside her, curling them up so that they're touching the exact right spot when she rocks. As soon as my fingers hit that spot Alex becomes franting, wriggling her body and sinking her teeth into my neck to avoid screaming. A muffled cry rings through the air. I feel powerful. Alive

_Oh yeah. This is what it's all about._

As soon as she starts to get frantic, moaning and whimpering my name, I lower my head from her breast, and gently nip at her clit. I an feel her orgasm building, the height of excitement reached. All her muscles are taut and aching for release, so I lave her nub with my tongue, lapping and sucking at it. Then it comes. Alex stills and bucks once and then quivers into a quaking collapse, with a cry, all her muscles contract and relax. She closes her eyes for a moment, probably recovering some of her senses, and then opens her golden eyes and looks at me under lowered lashes.

"Wow," She says, leaning forward to kiss me. She presses her hand against my hardness, and grins at me.

"Now it's your turn," she says.

_Wow, indeed. _

//

_A/N: And the smut begins. Please review! Even if you're militantly anti-smut! I still wanna hear it!_


	7. No Words

_A/N: Sorry for so long between updates. Sometimes my smut-writing ability just shuts itself off. Oh well, it's back now!_

//

It takes awhile for me to stand up. My whole body feels like it's been turned to jello. God knows I've had fantasies about Bobby's abilities as a lover, but it turns out Bobby in real life just blows fantasy Bobby out of the water. I should have known. Just look at the size of his hands. So often I've watched them roaming skillfully over a fragile piece of evidence, wondering what they would feel like exploring my skin. Well now I know. Talk about magic fingers. I haven't come that quickly since…since ever, I guess. I've been with some gifted lovers in the past, and Joe certainly was no slouch, but Bobby seems to have some sort of sixth sense when it comes to reading my body, to gauging my physical reactions. My brain still can't quite wrap itself around what just happened, but I know for sure that I'm probably going to have a glow on me for a week. At least.

_Why did it take us this long to get here? What a pair of idiots we are._

I'm trying to take the lead now, wanting Bobby to feel as loved and worshipped as he just made me feel. Wanting him to understand the depth of my desire for him. I grab his hand and pull him to his feet. We stagger back against the wall, and his hands are on me again. Roaming. Sending scorching trails of energy shooting down my stomach. My body literally aches to have him inside of me. I feel wetness dripping down my inner thighs as I clench my body towards his touch. His head is pressed against my neck, his erection rock hard against my thigh. Just the feel of him, knowing that I made him that way, knowing that I'm the cause of his arousal, almost causes me to lose it again. He nuzzles my jawline and moans as I run my hand along his shaft, lightly, feeling his hot skin even through the roughness of his jeans.

"Bedroom." I manage to get out in between gasps. And, God love him, Bobby picks me up to carry me there. I wrap my legs around his waist and we stumble forward, a mass of jumbled limbs and loose clothing. He lays me gently down on the bed and stands over me, giving me an impressive view of him, shirt askew, the tent in his pants looking almost comically large from below. I bite my lip as he pulls off his shirt. His chest is so broad, and I can't resist leaning forward to rake my fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair flecked there.

_Mmmm._

My face is now level with his groin, and I lay one palm, flat, on the bare skin just above his belt. I feel his belly hitch as he draws in a breath.

"Alex," his voice comes out in a low whisper which is both awe and lust intermingled. I can feel his body pulsing as I slowly unzip him and tug his pants down. His flesh is taught and warm, and suddenly I'm overcome. I don't know where to begin. This is Bobby, for christ's sakes. I don't know whether or not I want him to take me, hard and fast, driving into me; or if I want him to be torturously slow and drawn out, to build up tension until we both go crazy with release. So I let Bobby decide. I lay back and stroke a finger slowly across the underside of his cock, and let him choose what route to take. There's no bad decision here.

_This is pretty much the definition of win-win, Alex._

Bobby is on me, pinning my arms up above my head, pressing savage kisses against my mouth, my neck, nipping at my skin and then soothing the spot with his tongue. The feel of his bare skin on mine is almost more than I can take. He is so hard, I can't imagine how he can control himself. And I'm so turned on that I'm not even worried that from where I'm looking, he's quite definitely the best-endowed man I've ever been with. Screw that. He's the biggest man I've ever seen, bar-none. I guess office gossip, even idle speculation can be right sometimes. He rocks against my center and I have to clench my teeth to keep from crying out. I want to feel him filling me up.

He breaks off from his ministrations to breathlessly ask, "Alex…do you…do you have protection?"

Trust Bobby to remember to be a gentleman even when it's the last thing on my mind.

"Pill." I answer, and feel a shudder run through his body as he thinks about being able to feel the inside of me with no barriers. This seems to be his breaking point.

"God, Alex, you're so wet," he groans, as he runs a finger over my clit, causing me to buck against him as a jolt runs through me. He rubs my wetness over the head of his cock, and gently pushes just inside my opening, teasing me, making me thrust my hips towards him but pulling away, just poised there pressing directly against my aching nub.

"Bobby," I growl, and I can hardly recognize my own voice. I sound feral, dangerous, low and harsh. He grins down at me, his own sweet beautiful grin, and leans in to kiss me, and as his tongue touches mine, he thrusts himself all the way in, shifts the angle of his hips, and my world tilts crazily around me. I think I hear myself cry out, but I can't tell, and I don't honestly care.

_There are no words._

Now he's thrusting into me slowly as I bring my hips up to his and we're both panting and his mouth is pressing softly against mine and then his hands are teasing my nipples as he increases his pace and I feel him completely inside of me, my walls clenched around him as he keeps hitting just the right spot, the spot which makes hot lightning slide crazily through my body. I can feel it building again, that tension, that sweet, painful ache growing inside of me, my muscles tightening. I can tell that Bobby feels it too, because he begins moving a little faster, increasing the friction inside of me.

"Come for me, Alex," he whispers. "I've wanted this for so long. God you're so beautiful like this, you're so tight, come for me." And he's babbling in my ear, Bobby Goren is talking dirty to me. Bobby Goren is fucking me, he's inside me, he's making my body feel like a taut piano string ready to vibrate with the chord of his strokes. His soft lips press against the hollow of my throat and he thrusts into me again and allows his thumb to flick over my clit and that's all it takes. My throat feels dry from crying out as I melt into a frenzy around him, sweet convulsions rocking all of my muscles, a white light exploding behind my eyes as my back arches and he slams hard against my cervix, and I can feel that my tightness is spurring on his own orgasm, as he begins to lose control, bucking against me, his teeth pressing against my chest in a silent cry as he spasms and spills his hot seed inside me, grinding against me again and again, letting loose a long groan that turns into an audible sigh of bliss. His movements slow, and then he stills, remaining inside of me, cradled against my chest, his long eyelashes fluttering against my skin in a rapid tattoo.

_I feel like the Earth just moved. _

He slowly lifts his head up, kisses the sensitive spot between my breasts, and looks up at me, with wonder and gratitude and deep love in his eyes. Desperate, sweet, gentle love.

"Alex," he murmurs, his breath sending goosebumps up my chest. "I can't even begin..there aren't enough words in the world to describe how much I love you. I wish I could tell you…"

I smile down at him, feeling overwhelmed by the depth of my feelings, and his.

"You don't have to say a word, Bobby," I say, stroking his hair with one hand. "I feel the same way."

_Everyone always says that we seem to be able to communicate without speaking. In this case, I don't think there's another option, anyhow._

//

_A/N: Ok, are you smutisfied? This story's almost over. Maybe one or two more chapters, all fluff, all happy bunnies and rainbows, because damn it, that's what they deserve. Please review!!!_


	8. Epilogue

_A/N: This is the epilogue. No "M" rating on this one. I wanted to end the story where it should end—with happiness and fluff. No sense dragging it out, especially since I've started on my next story! (It will be a little darker, with some fantasy overtones—kind of a departure for me.)_

//

I awake in gradual stages, noting first the firm warmth of the body beside me; second, the smell of morning, of sex, of Eames's tea-rose perfume. I lie still for a minute, drinking in the bliss of feeling utterly at peace. Then Eames lets out a small, sleepy mew, and burrows herself more closely into me.

"This is better," she murmurs drowsily, "being here with you."

"Better than what?" I ask, stroking one finger down the side of her cheek, causing her to shiver, goosebumps rising in the wake of my caress.

"Better than everything," she says. "Better than before."

_I heartily concur._

She shifts around until we are facing—her bedroom tawny eyes blinking up at me. I feel a moment of disconnect from reality. Everything just seems too good. Too much. My entire life up until now has had its share of joyful moments, but the bottom always seems to drop out. The day at the beach building sandcastles is always tempered by the night spent locked in the closet, listening to my mother raving, the dull thud of my father's fists. The nights spent with Lewis, hitting on girls, working on cars, always ending with the knowledge that I had to sleep on his floor, that my family wouldn't miss me. Even later, drinking margaritas with Eames, laughing at her jokes, ultimately having to walk home alone, picturing her smiling, tequila-flushed face, realizing that memories were all I would ever have of her.

But now.

She snuggles against me.

"I know what would make this morning even better," I joke, as she presses against my not-so-subtle morning erection. I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively as she feels tentatively around under the sheets, grinning.

"So do I," she says seductively, leaning in to whisper in my ear—"waffles."

I let out a short laugh at this, and prepare to hop out of bed.

"Listen, Alex," I say, wanting to get this out of the way before I leave the comfort of our embrace. "The last few months—hell, the last few years, I'm— " Alex stops me with a tiny hand over my mouth, clamping down with surprising strength.

"Don't you apologize to me, Bobby Goren," she says warningly. "I want to put all of that behind us. Yeah, we had a rough time of it, yeah things got shitty for awhile, yeah we both went through the ringer—but we came through it. We survived. Our partnership is stronger than ever. And we're going to continue to grow. As a couple. Together. So let's not start this out with apologies."

She waits for a second before withdrawing her hand.

"Actually," I say, "I was going to say that all of that drama was a clever ploy to get you in the sack. And it worked!"

Eames threw a pillow at me.

God, she's beautiful when she laughs.

//

_Ok that's it! Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Stay tuned for my next story—intrigue, mystery, sex, and jealousy. Everything you'd want! Xoxo._


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